The Man Who Died, by D. H. Lawrence

I

There was a peasant near Jerusalem who acquired a young gamecock which looked a shabby little thing,
but which put on brave feathers as spring advanced, and was resplendent with arched and orange neck by the time the fig
trees were letting out leaves from their end-tips.

This peasant was poor, he lived in a cottage of mud-brick, and had only a dirty little inner courtyard with a tough
fig tree for all his territory. He worked hard among the vines and olives and wheat of his master, then came home to
sleep in the mud-brick cottage by the path. But he was proud of his young rooster. In the shut-in yard were three
shabby hens which laid small eggs, shed the few feathers they had, and made a disproportionate amount of dirt. There
was also, in a corner under a straw roof, a dull donkey that often went out with the peasant to work, but sometimes
stayed at home. And there was the peasant’s wife, a black-browed youngish woman who did not work too hard. She threw a
little grain, or the remains of the porridge mess, to the fowls, and she cut green fodder with a sickle for the
ass.

The young cock grew to a certain splendour. By some freak of destiny, he was a dandy rooster, in that dirty little
yard with three patchy hens. He learned to crane his neck and give shrill answers to the crowing of other cocks, beyond
the walls, in a world he knew nothing of. But there was a special fiery colour to his crow, and the distant calling of
the other cocks roused him to unexpected outbursts.

“How he sings,” said the peasant, as he got up and pulled his day-shirt over his head.

“He is good for twenty hens,” said the wife.

The peasant went out and looked with pride at his young rooster. A saucy, flamboyant bird, that has already made the
final acquaintance of the three tattered hens. But the cockerel was tipping his head, listening to the challenge of
far-off unseen cocks, in the unknown world. Ghost voices, crowing at him mysteriously out of limbo. He answered with a
ringing defiance, never to be daunted.

“He will surely fly away one of these days,” said the peasant’s wife.

So they lured him with grain, caught him, though he fought with all his wings and feet, and they tied a cord round
his shank, fastening it against the spur; and they tied the other end of the cord to the post that held up the donkey’s
straw pent-roof.

The young cock, freed, marched with a prancing stride of indignation away from the humans, came to the end of his
string, gave a tug and a hitch of his tied leg, fell over for a moment, scuffled frantically on the unclean earthen
floor, to the horror of the shabby hens, then with a sickening lurch, regained his feet, and stood to think. The
peasant and the peasant’s wife laughed heartily, and the young cock heard them. And he knew, with a gloomy, foreboding
kind of knowledge that he was tied by the leg.

He no longer pranced and ruffled and forged his feathers. He walked within the limits of his tether sombrely. Still
he gobbled up the best bits of food. Still, sometimes, he saved an extra-best bit for his favourite hen of the moment.
Still he pranced with quivering, rocking fierceness upon such of his harem as came nonchalantly within range, and gave
off the invisible lure. And still he crowed defiance to the cock-crows that showered up out of limbo, in the dawn.

But there was now a grim voracity in the way he gobbled his food, and a pinched triumph in the way he seized upon
the shabby hens. His voice, above all, had lost the full gold of its clangour. He was tied by the leg, and he knew it.
Body, soul and spirit were tied by that string.

Underneath, however, the life in him was grimly unbroken. It was the cord that should break. So one morning, just
before the light of dawn, rousing from his slumbers with a sudden wave of strength, he leaped forward on his wings, and
the string snapped. He gave a wild, strange squawk, rose in one lift to the top of the wall, and there he crowed a loud
and splitting crow. So loud, it woke the peasant.

At the same time, at the same hour before dawn, on the same morning, a man awoke from a long sleep in which he was
tied up. He woke numb and cold, inside a carved hole in the rock. Through all the long sleep his body had been full of
hurt, and it was still full of hurt. He did not open his eyes. Yet he knew that he was awake, and numb, and cold, and
rigid, and full of hurt, and tied up. His face was banded with cold bands, his legs were bandaged together. Only his
hands were loose.

He could move if he wanted: he knew that. But he had no want. Who would want to come back from the dead? A deep,
deep nausea stirred in him, at the premonition of movement. He resented already the fact of the strange, incalculable
moving that had already taken place in him: the moving back into consciousness. He had not wished it. He had wanted to
stay outside, in the place where even memory is stone dead.

But now, something had returned to him, like a returned letter, and in that return he lay overcome with a sense of
nausea. Yet suddenly his hands moved. They lifted up, cold, heavy and sore. Yet they lifted up, to drag away the cloth
from his face, and push at the shoulder-bands. Then they fell again, cold, heavy, numb, and sick with having moved even
so much, unspeakably unwilling to move further.

With his face cleared and his shoulders free, he lapsed again, and lay dead, resting on the cold nullity of being
dead. It was the most desirable. And almost, he had it complete: the utter cold nullity of being outside.

Yet when he was most nearly gone, suddenly, driven by an ache at the wrists, his hands rose and began pushing at the
bandages of his knees, his feet began to stir, even while his breast lay cold and dead still.

And at last, the eyes opened. On to the dark. The same dark! Yet perhaps there was a pale chink, of the
all-disturbing light, prising open the pure dark. He could not lift his head. The eyes closed. And again it was
finished.

Then suddenly he leaned up, and the great world reeled. Bandages fell away. And narrow walls of rock closed upon
him, and gave the new anguish of imprisonment. There were chinks of light. With a wave of strength that came from
revulsion, he leaned forward, in that narrow well of rock, and leaned frail hands on the rock near the chinks of
light.

Strength came from somewhere, from revulsion; there was a crash and a wave of light, and the dead man was crouching
in his lair, facing the animal onrush of light. Yet it was hardly dawn. And the strange, piercing keenness of
daybreak’s sharp breath was on him. It meant full awakening.

Slowly, slowly he crept down from the cell of rock with the caution of the bitterly wounded. Bandages and linen and
perfume fell away, and he crouched on the ground against the wall of rock, to recover oblivion. But he saw his hurt
feet touching the earth again, with unspeakable pain, the earth they had meant to touch no more, and he saw his thin
legs that had died, and pain unknowable, pain like utter bodily disillusion, filled him so full that he stood up, with
one torn hand on the ledge of the tomb.

To be back! To be back again, after all that! He saw the linen swathing-bands fallen round his dead feet, and
stooping, he picked them up, folded them, and laid them back in the rocky cavity from which he had emerged. Then he
took the perfumed linen sheet, wrapped it round him as a mantle, and turned away, to the wanness of the chill dawn.

He was alone; and having died, was even beyond loneliness.

Filled still with the sickness of unspeakable disillusion, the man stepped with wincing feet down the rocky slope,
past the sleeping soldiers, who lay wrapped in their woollen mantles under the wild laurels. Silent, on naked scarred
feet, wrapped in a white linen shroud, he glanced down for a moment on the inert, heap-like bodies of the soldiers.
They were repulsive, a slow squalor of limbs, yet he felt a certain compassion. He passed on towards the road, lest
they should wake.

Having nowhere to go, he turned from the city that stood on her hills. He slowly followed the road away from the
town, past the olives, under which purple anemones were drooping in the chill of dawn, and rich-green herbage was
pressing thick. The world, the same as ever, the natural world, thronging with greenness, a nightingale winsomely,
wistfully, coaxingly calling from the bushes beside a runnel of water, in the world, the natural world of morning and
evening, forever undying, from which he had died.

He went on, on scarred feet, neither of this world nor of the next. Neither here nor there, neither seeing nor yet
sightless, he passed dimly on, away from the city and its precincts, wondering why he should be travelling, yet driven
by a dim, deep nausea of disillusion, and a resolution of which he was not even aware.

Advancing in a kind of half-consciousness under the dry stone wall of the olive orchard, he was roused by the
shrill, wild crowing of a cock just near him, a sound which made him shiver as if electricity had touched him. He saw a
black and orange cock on a bough above the road, then running through the olives of the upper level, a peasant in a
grey woollen shirt-tunic. Leaping out of greenness, came the black and orange cock with the red comb, his tail-feathers
streaming lustrous.

“O, stop him, master!” called the peasant. “My escaped cock!”

The man addressed, with a sudden flicker of smile, opened his great white wings of a shroud in front of the leaping
bird. The cock fell back with a squawk and a flutter, the peasant jumped forward, there was a terrific beating of wings
and whirring of feathers, then the peasant had the escaped cock safely under his arm, its wings shut down, its face
crazily craning forward, its round eyes goggling from its white chops.

“It’s my escaped cock!” said the peasant, soothing the bird with his left hand, as he looked perspiringly up into
the face of the man wrapped in white linen.

The peasant changed countenance, and stood transfixed, as he looked into the dead-white face of the man who had
died. That dead-white face, so still, with the black beard growing on it as if in death; and those wide-open, black,
sombre eyes, that had died! and those washed scars on the waxy forehead! The slow-blooded man of the field let his jaw
drop, in childish inability to meet the situation.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the man in the shroud. “I am not dead. They took me down too soon. So I have risen up. Yet
if they discover me, they will do it all over again . . . ”

He spoke in a voice of old disgust. Humanity! Especially humanity in authority! There was only one thing it could
do. He looked with black, indifferent eyes into the quick, shifty eyes of the peasant. The peasant quailed, and was
powerless under the look of deathly indifference and strange, cold resoluteness. He could only say the one thing he was
afraid to say:

“Will you hide in my house, master?”

“I will rest there. But if you tell anyone, you know what will happen. You will have to go before a judge.”

“Me! I shan’t speak. Let us be quick!”

The peasant looked round in fear, wondering sulkily why he had let himself in for this doom. The man with scarred
feet climbed painfully up to the level of the olive garden, and followed the sullen, hurrying peasant across the green
wheat among the olive trees. He felt the cool silkiness of the young wheat under his feet that had been dead, and the
roughishness of its separate life was apparent to him. At the edges of rocks, he saw the silky, silvery-haired buds of
the scarlet anemone bending downwards. And they, too, were in another world. In his own world he was alone, utterly
alone. These things around him were in a world that had never died. But he himself had died, or had been killed from
out of it, and all that remained now was the great void nausea of utter disillusion.

They came to a clay cottage, and the peasant waited dejectedly for the other man to pass.

“Pass!” he said. “Pass! We have not been seen.”

The man in white linen entered the earthen room, taking with him the aroma of strange perfumes. The peasant closed
the door, and passed through the inner doorway into the yard, where the ass stood within the high walls, safe from
being stolen. There the peasant, in great disquietude, tied up the cock. The man with the waxen face sat down on a mat
near the hearth, for he was spent and barely conscious. Yet he heard outside the whispering of the peasant to his wife,
for the woman had been watching from the roof.

Presently they came in, and the woman hid her face. She poured water, and put bread and dried figs on a wooden
platter.

“Eat, master!” said the peasant. “Eat! No one has seen.”

But the stranger had no desire for food. Yet he moistened a little bread in the water, and ate it, since life must
be. But desire was dead in him, even for food and drink. He had risen without desire, without even the desire to live,
empty save for the all-overwhelming disillusion that lay like nausea where his life had been. Yet perhaps, deeper even
than disillusion, was a desireless resoluteness, deeper even than consciousness.

The peasant and his wife stood near the door, watching. They saw with terror the livid wounds on the thin, waxy
hands and the thin feet of the stranger, and the small lacerations in the still dead forehead. They smelled with terror
the scent of rich perfumes that came from him, from his body. And they looked at the fine, snowy, costly linen. Perhaps
really he was a dead king, from the region of terrors. And he was still cold and remote in the region of death, with
perfumes coming from his transparent body as if from some strange flower.

Having with difficulty swallowed some, the moistened bread, he lifted his eyes to them. He saw them as they were:
limited, meagre in their life, without any splendour of gesture and of courage. But they were what they were, slow,
inevitable parts of the natural world. They had no nobility, but fear made them compassionate.

And the stranger had compassion on them again, for he knew that they would respond best to gentleness, giving back a
clumsy gentleness again.

“Do not be afraid,” he said to them gently. “Let me stay a little while with you. I shall not stay long. And then I
shall go away for ever. But do not be afraid. No harm will come to you through me.”

They believed him at once, yet the fear did not leave them. And they said:

“Stay, master, while ever you will. Rest! Rest quietly!” But they were afraid.

So he let them be, and the peasant went away with the ass. The sun had risen bright, and in the dark house with the
door shut, the man was again as if in the tomb. So he said to the woman: “I would lie in the yard.”

And she swept the yard for him, and laid him a mat, and he lay down under the wall in the morning sun. There he saw
the first green leaves spurting like flames from the ends of the enclosed fig tree, out of the bareness to the sky of
spring above. But the man who had died could not look, he only lay quite still in the sun, which was not yet too hot,
and had no desire in him, not even to move. But he lay with his thin legs in the sun, his black, perfumed hair falling
into the hollows of his neck, and his thin, colourless arms utterly inert. As he lay there, the hens clucked, and
scratched, and the escaped cock, caught and tied by the leg again, cowered in a corner.

The peasant woman was frightened. She came peeping, and, seeing him never move, feared to have a dead man in the
yard. But the sun had grown stronger, he opened his eyes and looked at her. And now she was frightened of the man who
was alive, but spoke nothing.

He opened his eyes, and saw the world again bright as glass. It was life, in which he had no share any more. But it
shone outside him, blue sky, and a bare fig tree with little jets of green leaf. Bright as glass, and he was not of it,
for desire had failed.

Yet he was there, and not extinguished. The day passed in a kind of coma, and at evening he went into the house. The
peasant man came home, but he was frightened, and had nothing to say. The stranger, too, ate of the mess of beans, a
little. Then he washed his hands and turned to the wall, and was silent. The peasants were silent too. They watched
their guest sleep. Sleep was so near death he could still sleep.

Yet when the sun came up, he went again to lie in the yard. The sun was the one thing that drew him and swayed him,
and he still wanted to feel the cool air of the morning in his nostrils, see the pale sky overhead. He still hated to
be shut up.

As he came out, the young cock crowed. It was a diminished, pinched cry, but there was that in the voice of the bird
stronger than chagrin. It was the necessity to live, and even to cry out the triumph of life. The man who had died
stood and watched the cock who had escaped and been caught, ruffling himself up, rising forward on his toes, throwing
up his head, and parting his beak in another challenge from life to death. The brave sounds rang out, and though they
were diminished by the cord round the bird’s leg, they were not cut off. The man who had died looked nakedly on life,
and saw a vast resoluteness everywhere flinging itself up in stormy or subtle wave-crests, foam-tips emerging out of
the blue invisible, a black and orange cock or the green flame-tongues out of the extremes of the fig tree. They came
forth, these things and creatures of spring, glowing with desire and with assertion. They came like crests of foam, out
of the blue flood of the invisible desire, out of the vast invisible sea of strength, and they came coloured and
tangible, evanescent, yet deathless in their coming. The man who had died looked on the great swing into existence of
things that had not died, but he saw no longer their tremulous desire to exist and to be. He heard instead their
ringing, ringing, defiant challenge to all other things existing.

The man lay still, with eyes that had died now wide open and darkly still, seeing the everlasting resoluteness of
life. And the cock, with the flat, brilliant glance, glanced back at him, with a bird’s half-seeing look. And always
the man who had died saw not the bird alone, but the short, sharp wave of life of which the bird was the crest. He
watched the queer, beaky motion of the creature as it gobbled into itself the scraps of food; its glancing of the eye
of life, ever alert and watchful, over-weening and cautious, and the voice of its life, crowing triumph and assertion,
yet strangled by a cord of circumstance. He seemed to hear the queer speech of very life, as the cock triumphantly
imitated the clucking of the favourite hen, when she had laid an egg, a clucking which still had, in the male bird, the
hollow chagrin of the cord round his leg. And when the man threw a bit of bread to the cock, it called with an
extraordinary cooing tenderness, tousling and saving the morsel for the hens. The hens ran up greedily, and carried the
morsel away beyond the reach of the string.

Then, walking complacently after them, suddenly the male bird’s leg would hitch at the end of his tether, and he
would yield with a kind of collapse. His flag fell, he seemed to diminish, he would huddle in the shade. And he was
young, his tail-feathers, glossy as they were, were not fully grown. It was not till evening again that the tide of
life in him made him forget. Then when his favourite hen came strolling unconcernedly near him, emitting the lure, he
pounced on her with all his feathers vibrating. And the man who had died watched the unsteady, rocking vibration of the
bent bird, and it was not the bird he saw, but one wave-tip of life overlapping for a minute another, in the tide of
the swaying ocean of life. And the destiny of life seemed more fierce and compulsive to him even than the destiny of
death. The doom of death was a shadow compared to the raging destiny of life, the determined surge of life.

At twilight the peasant came home with the ass, and he said: “Master! It is said that the body was stolen from the
garden, and the tomb is empty, and the soldiers are taken away, accursed Romans! And the women are there to weep.”

The man who had died looked at the man who had not died.

“It is well,” he said. “Say nothing, and we are safe.”

And the peasant was relieved. He looked rather dirty and stupid, and even as much flaminess as that of the young
cock, which he had tied by. the leg, would never glow in him. He was without fire. But the man who had died thought to
himself:

“Why, then, should he be lifted up? Clods of earth are turned over for refreshment, they are not to be lifted up.
Let the earth remain earthy, and hold its own against the sky. I was to seek to lift it up. I was wrong to try to
interfere. The ploughshare of devastation will be set in the soil of Judea, and the life of this peasant will be
overturned like the sods of the field. No man can save the earth from tillage. It is tillage, not salvation
. . . ”

So he saw the man, the peasant, with compassion; but the man who had died no longer wished to interfere in the soul
of the man who had not died, and who could never die, save to return to earth. Let him return to earth in his own good
hour, and let no one try to interfere when the earth claims her own.

So the man with scars let the peasant go from him, for the peasant had no rebirth in him. Yet the man who had died
said to himself: “He is my host.”

And at dawn, when he was better, the man who had died rose up, and on slow, sore feet retraced his way to the
garden. For he had been betrayed in a garden, and buried in a garden. And as he turned round the screen of laurels,
near the rock-face, he saw a woman hovering by the tomb, a woman in blue and yellow. She peeped again into the mouth of
the hole, that was like a deep cupboard. But still there was nothing. And she wrung her hands and wept. And as she
turned away, she saw the man in white, standing by the laurels, and she gave a cry, thinking it might be a spy, and she
said:

“They have taken him away!”

So he said to her:

“Madeleine!”

Then she reeled as if she would fall, for she knew him. And he said to her:

“Madeleine! Do not be afraid. I am alive. They took me down too soon, so I came back to life. Then I was sheltered
in a house.”

She did not know what to say, but fell at his feet to kiss them.

“Don’t touch me, Madeleine,” he said. “Not yet! I am not yet healed and in touch with men.”

So she wept because she did not know what to do. And he said:

“Let us go aside, among the bushes, where we can speak unseen.”

So in her blue mantle and her yellow robe, she followed him among the trees, and he sat down under a myrtle bush.
And he said:

“I am not yet quite come to. Madeleine, what is to be done next?”

“Master!” she said. “Oh, we have wept for you! And will you come back to us?”

“What is finished is finished, and for me the end is past,” he said. “The stream will run till no more rains fill
it, then it will dry up. For me, that life is over.”

“And will you give up your triumph?” she said sadly.

“My triumph,” he said, “is that I am not dead. I have outlived my mission and know no more of it. It is my triumph.
I have survived the day and the death of my interference, and am still a man. I am young still, Madeleine, not even
come to middle age. I am glad all that is over. It had to be. But now I am glad it is over, and the day of my
interference is done. The teacher and the saviour are dead in me; now I can go about my business, into my own single
life.”

She heard him, and did not fully understand. But what he said made her feel disappointed.

“But you will come back to us?” she said, insisting.

“I don’t know what I shall do,” he said. “When I am healed, I shall know better. But my mission is over, and my
teaching is finished, and death has saved me from my own salvation. Oh, Madeleine, I want to take my single way in
life, which is my portion. My public life is over, the life of my self-importance. Now I can wait on life, and say
nothing, and have no one betray me. I wanted to be greater than the limits of my hands and feet, so I brought betrayal
on myself. And I know I wronged Judas, my poor Judas. For I have died, and now I know my own limits. Now I can live
without striving to sway others any more. For my reach ends in my fingertips, and my stride is no longer than the ends
of my toes. Yet I would embrace multitudes, I who have never truly embraced even one. But Judas and the high priests
saved me from my own salvation, and soon I can turn to my destiny like a bather in the sea at dawn, who has just come
down to the shore alone.”

“Do you want to be alone henceforward?” she asked. “And was your mission nothing? Was it all untrue?”

“Nay!” he said. “Neither were your lovers in the past nothing. They were much to you, but you took more than you
gave. Then you came to me for salvation from your own excess. And I, in my mission, I too ran to excess. I gave more
than I took, and that also is woe and vanity. So Pilate and the high priests saved me from my own excessive salvation.
Don’t run to excess now in living, Madeleine. It only means another death.”

She pondered bitterly, for the need for excessive giving was in her, and she could not bear to be denied.

“And will you not come back to us?” she said. “Have you risen for yourself alone?”

He heard the sarcasm in her voice, and looked at her beautiful face which still was dense with excessive need for
salvation from the woman she had been, the female who had caught men at her will. The cloud of necessity was on her, to
be saved from the old, wilful Eve, who had embraced many men and taken more than she gave. Now the other doom was on
her. She wanted to give without taking. And that, too, is hard, and cruel to the warm body.

“I have not risen from the dead in order to seek death again,” he said.

She glanced up at him, and saw the weariness settling again on his waxy face, and the vast disillusion in his dark
eyes, and the underlying indifference. He felt her glance, and said to himself:

“Now my own followers will want to do me to death again, for having risen up different from their expectation.”

“But you will come to us, to see us, us who love you?” she said.

He laughed a little and said:

“Ah, yes.” Then he added: “Have you a little money? Will you give me a little money? I owe it.”

She had not much, but it pleased her to give it to him.

“Do you think,” he said to her, “that I might come and live with you in your house?”

She looked up at him with large blue eyes, that gleamed strangely.

“Now?” she said with peculiar triumph.

And he, who shrank now from triumph of any sort, his own or another’s, said:

“Not now! Later, when I am healed, and . . . and I am in touch with the flesh.”

The words faltered in him. And in his heart he knew he would never go to live in her house. For the flicker of
triumph had gleamed in her eyes; the greed of giving. But she murmured in a humming rapture:

“Ah, you know I would give up everything to you.”

“Nay!” he said. “I didn’t ask that.”

A revulsion from all the life he had known came over him again, the great nausea of disillusion, and the
spear-thrust through his bowels. He crouched under the myrtle bushes, without strength. Yet his eyes were open. And she
looked at him again, and she saw that it was not the Messiah. The Messiah had not risen. The enthusiasm and the burning
purity were gone, and the rapt youth. His youth was dead. This man was middle-aged and disillusioned, with a certain
terrible indifference, and a resoluteness which love would never conquer. This was not the Master she had so adored,
the young, flamy, unphysical exalter of her soul. This was nearer to the lovers she had known of old, but with a
greater indifference to the personal issue, and a lesser susceptibility.

She was thrown out of the balance of her rapturous, anguished adoration. This risen man was the death of her
dream.

“You should go now,” he said to her. “Do not touch me, I am in death. I shall come again here, on the third day.
Come if you will, at dawn. And we will speak again.”

She went away, perturbed and shattered. Yet as she went, her mind discarded the bitterness of the reality, and she
conjured up rapture and wonder, that the Master was risen and was not dead. He was risen, the Saviour, the exalter, the
wonder-worker! He was risen, but not as man; as pure God, who should not be touched by flesh, and who should be rapt
away into Heaven. It was the most glorious and most ghostly of the miracles.

Meanwhile the man who had died gathered himself together at last, and slowly made his way to the peasant’s house. He
was glad to go back to them, and away from Madeleine and his own associates. For the peasants had the inertia of earth
and would let him rest, and as yet, would put no compulsion on him.

The woman was on the roof, looking for him. She was afraid that he had gone away. His presence in the house had
become like gentle wine to her. She hastened to the door, to him.

“Where have you been?” she said. “Why did you go away?”

“I have been to walk in a garden, and I have seen a friend, who gave me a little money. It is for you.”

He held out his thin hand, with the small amount of money, all that Madeleine could give him. The peasant’s wife’s
eyes glistened, for money was scarce, and she said:

“Oh, master! And is it truly mine?”

“Take it!” he said. “It buys bread, and bread brings life.”

So he lay down in the yard again, sick with relief at being alone again. For with the peasants he could be alone,
but his own friends would never let him be alone. And in the safety of the yard, the young cock was dear to him, as it
shouted in the helpless zest of life, and finished in the helpless humiliation of being tied by the leg. This day the
ass stood swishing her tail under the shed. The man who had died lay down and turned utterly away from life, in the
sickness of death in life.

But the woman brought wine and water, and sweetened cakes, and roused him, so that he ate a little, to please her.
The day was hot, and as she crouched to serve him, he saw her breasts sway from her humble body, under her smock. He
knew she wished he would desire her, and she was youngish, and not unpleasant. And he, who had never known a woman,
would have desired her if he could. But he could not want her, though he felt gently towards her soft, crouching,
humble body. But it was her thoughts, her consciousness, he could not mingle with. She was pleased with the money, and
now she wanted to take more from him. She wanted the embrace of his body. But her little soul was hard, and
short-sighted, and grasping, her body had its little greed, and no gentle reverence of the return gift. So he spoke a
quiet, pleasant word to her and turned away. He could not touch the little, personal body, the little, personal life of
this woman, nor in any other. He turned away from it without hesitation.

Risen from the dead, he had realised at last that the body, too, has its little life, and beyond that, the greater
life. He was virgin, in recoil from the little, greedy life of the body. But now he knew that virginity is a form of
greed; and that the body rises again to give and to take, to take and to give, ungreedily. Now he knew that he had
risen for the woman, or women, who knew the greater life of the body, not greedy to give, not greedy to take, and with
whom he could mingle his body. But having died, he was patient, knowing there was time, an eternity of time. And he was
driven by no greedy desire, either to give himself to others, or to grasp anything for himself. For he had died.

The peasant came home from work and said:

“Master, I thank you for the money. But we did not want it. And all I have is yours.”

But the man who had died was sad, because the peasant stood there in the little, personal body, and his eyes were
cunning and sparkling with the hope of greater rewards in money later on. True, the peasant had taken him in free, and
had risked getting no reward. But the hope was cunning in him. Yet even this was as men are made. So when the peasant
would have helped him to rise, for night had fallen, the man who had died said:

“Don’t touch me, brother. I am not yet risen to the Father.”

The sun burned with greater splendour, and burnished the young cock brighter. But the peasant kept the string
renewed, and the bird was a prisoner. Yet the flame of life burned up to a sharp point in the cock, so that it eyed
askance and haughtily the man who had died. And the man smiled and held the bird dear, and he said to it:

“Surely thou art risen to the Father, among birds.” And the young cock, answering, crowed.

When at dawn on the third morning the man went to the garden, he was absorbed, thinking of the greater life of the
body, beyond the little, narrow, personal life. So he came through the thick screen of laurel and myrtle bushes, near
the rock, suddenly, and he saw three women near the tomb. One was Madeleine, and one was the woman who had been his
mother, and the third was a woman he knew, called Joan. He looked up, and saw them all, and they saw him, and they were
all afraid.

He stood arrested in the distance, knowing they were there to claim him back, bodily. But he would in no wise return
to them. Pallid, in the shadow of a grey morning that was blowing to rain, he saw them, and turned away. But Madeleine
hastened towards him.

“I did not bring them,” she said. “They have come of themselves. See, I have brought you money! . . . Will
you not speak to them?”

She offered him some gold pieces, and he took them, saying:

“May I have this money? I shall need it. I cannot speak to them, for I am not yet ascended to the Father. And I must
leave you now.”

“Ah! Where will you go?” she cried.

He looked at her, and saw she was clutching for the man in him who had died and was dead, the man of his youth and
his mission, of his chastity and his fear, of his little life, his giving without taking.

“I must go to my Father!” he said.

“And you will leave us? There is your mother!” she cried, turning round with the old anguish, which yet was sweet to
her.

“But now I must ascend to my Father,” he said, and he drew back into the bushes, and so turned quickly, and went
away, saying to himself:

“Now I belong to no one and have no connection, and mission or gospel is gone from me. Lo! I cannot make even my own
life, and what have I to save? . . . I can learn to be alone.”

So he went back to the peasants’ house, to the yard where the young cock was tied by the leg with a string. And he
wanted no one, for it was best to be alone; for the presence of people made him lonely. The sun and the subtle salve of
spring healed his wounds, even the gaping wound of disillusion through his bowels was closing up. And his need of men
and women, his fever to have them and to be saved by them, this too was healing in him. Whatever came of touch between
himself and the race of men, henceforth, should come without trespass or compulsion. For he said to himself:

“I tried to compel them to live, so they compelled me to, die. It is always so, with compulsion. The recoil kills
the advance. Now is my time to be alone.”

Therefore he went no more to the garden, but lay still and saw the sun, or walked at dusk across the olive slopes,
among the green wheat, that rose a palm-breadth higher every sunny day. And always he thought to himself:

‘How good it is to have fulfilled my mission, and to be beyond it. Now I can be alone, and leave all things to
themselves, and the fig tree may be barren if it will, and the rich may be rich. My way is my own alone.’

So the green jets of leaves unspread on the fig tree, with the bright, translucent, green blood of the tree. And the
young cock grew brighter, more lustrous with the sun’s burnishing; yet always tied by the leg with a string. And the
sun went down more and more in pomp, out of the gold and red-flushed air. The man who had died was aware of it all, and
he thought:

‘The Word is but the midge that bites at evening. Man is tormented with words like midges, and they follow him right
into the tomb. But beyond the tomb they cannot go. Now I have passed the place where words can bite no more and the air
is clear, and there is nothing to say, and I am alone within my own skin, which is the walls of all my domain.’

So he healed of his wounds, and enjoyed his immortality of being alive without fret. For in the tomb he had slipped
that noose which we call care. For in the tomb he had left his striving self, which cares and asserts itself. Now his
uncaring self healed and became whole within his skin, and he smiled to himself with pure aloneness, which is one sort
of immortality.

Then he said to himself: “I will wander the earth, and say nothing. For nothing is so marvellous as to be alone in
the phenomenal world, which is raging, and yet apart. And I have not seen it, I was too much blinded by my confusion
within it. Now I will wander among the stirring of the phenomenal world, for it is the stirring of all things among
themselves which leaves me purely alone.”

So he communed with himself, and decided to be a physician. Because the power was still in him to heal any man or
child who touched his compassion. Therefore he cut his hair and his beard after the right fashion, and smiled to
himself. And he bought himself shoes, and the right mantle, and put the right cloth over his head, hiding all the
little scars. And the peasant said:

“Master, will you go forth from us?”

“Yes, for the time is come for me to return to men.”

So he gave the peasant a piece of money, and said to him:

“Give me the cock that escaped and is now tied by the leg. For he shall go forth with me.”

So for a piece of money the peasant gave the cock to the man who had died, and at dawn the man who had died set out
into the phenomenal world, to be fulfilled in his own loneliness in the midst of it. For previously he had been too
much mixed up in it. Then he had died. Now he must come back, to be alone in the midst. Yet even now he did not go
quite alone, for under his arm, as he went, he carried the cock, whose tail fluttered gaily behind, and who craned his
head excitedly, for he too was adventuring out for the first time into the wider phenomenal world, which is the
stirring of the body of cocks also. And the peasant woman shed a few tears, but then went indoors, being a peasant, to
look again at the pieces of money. And it seemed to her, a gleam came out of the pieces of money, wonderful.

The man who had died wandered on, and it was a sunny day. He looked around as he went, and stood aside as the
pack-train passed by, towards the city. And he said to himself:

“Strange is the phenomenal world, dirty and clean together! And I am the same. Yet I am apart! And life bubbles
variously. Why should I have wanted it to bubble all alike? What a pity I preached to them! A sermon is so much more
likely to cake into mud, and to close the fountains, than is a psalm or a song. I made a mistake. I understand that
they executed me for preaching to them. Yet they could not finally execute me, for now I am risen in my own aloneness,
and inherit the earth, since I lay no claim on it. And I will be alone in the seethe of all things; first and foremost,
for ever, I shall be alone. But I must toss this bird into the seethe of phenomena, for he must ride his wave. How hot
he is with life! Soon, in some place, I shall leave him among the hens. And perhaps one evening I shall meet a woman
who can lure my risen body, yet leave me my aloneness. For the body of my desire has died, and I am not in touch
anywhere. Yet how do I know! All at least is life. And this cock gleams with bright aloneness, though he answers the
lure of hens. And I shall hasten on to that village on the hill ahead of me; already I am tired and weak, and want to
close my eyes to everything.”

Hastening a little with the desire to have finished going, he overtook two men going slowly, and talking. And being
soft-footed, he heard they were speaking of himself. And he remembered them, for he had known them in his life, the
life of his mission. So he greeted them, but did not disclose himself in the dusk, and they did not know him. He said
to them:

“What then of him who would be king, and was put to death for it?”

They answered suspiciously: “Why ask you of him?”

“I have known him, and thought much about him,” he said.

So they replied: “He has risen.”

“Yea! And where is he, and how does he live?”

“We know not, for it is not revealed. Yet he is risen, and in a little while will ascend unto the Father.”

“Yea! And where then is his Father?”

“Know ye not? You are then of the Gentiles! The Father is in Heaven, above the cloud and the firmament.”

“Truly? Then how will he ascend?”

“As Elijah the Prophet, he shall go up in a glory.”

“Even into the sky.”

“Into the sky.”

“Then is he not risen in the flesh?”

“He is risen in the flesh.”

“And will he take flesh up into the sky?”

“The Father in Heaven will take him up.”

The man who had died said no more, for his say was over, and words beget words, even as gnats. But the man asked
him: “Why do you carry a cock?”

“I am a healer,” he said, “and the bird hath virtue.”

“You are not a believer?”

“Yea! I believe the bird is full of life and virtue.”

They walked on in silence after this, and he felt they disliked his answer. So he smiled to himself, for a dangerous
phenomenon in the world is a man of narrow belief, who denies the right of his neighbour to be alone. And as they came
to the outskirts of the village, the man who had died stood still in the gloaming and said in his old voice:

“Know ye me not?”

And they cried in fear: “Master!”

“Yea!” he said, laughing softly. And he turned suddenly away, down a side lane, and was gone under the wall before
they knew.

So he came to an inn where the asses stood in the yard. And he called for fritters, and they were made for him. So
he slept under a shed. But in the morning he was wakened by a loud crowing, and his cock’s voice ringing in his ears.
So he saw the rooster of the inn walking forth to battle, with his hens, a goodly number, behind him. Then the cock of
the man who had died sprang forth, and a battle began between the birds. The man of the inn ran to save his rooster,
but the man who had died said:

“If my bird wins I will give him thee. And if he lose, thou shalt eat him.”

So the birds fought savagely, and the cock of the man who had died killed the common cock of the yard. Then the man
who had died said to his young cock:

“Thou at least hast found thy kingdom, and the females to thy body. Thy aloneness can take on splendour, polished by
the lure of thy hens.”

And he left his bird there, and went on deeper into the phenomenal world, which is a vast complexity of
entanglements and allurements. And he asked himself a last question:

“From what, and to what, could this infinite whirl be saved?”

So he went his way, and was alone. But the way of the world was past belief, as he saw the strange entanglement of
passions and circumstance and compulsion everywhere, but always the dread insomnia of compulsion. It was fear, the
ultimate fear of death, that made men mad. So always he must move on, for if he stayed, his neighbours wound the
strangling of their fear and bullying round him. There was nothing he could touch, for all, in a mad assertion of the
ego, wanted to put a compulsion on him, and violate his intrinsic solitude. It was the mania of cities and societies
and hosts, to lay a compulsion upon a man, upon all men. For men and women alike were mad with the egoistic fear of
their own nothingness. And he thought of his own mission, how he had tried to lay the compulsion of love on all men.
And the old nausea came back on him. For there was no contact without a subtle attempt to inflict a compulsion. And
already he had been compelled even into death. The nausea of the old wound broke out afresh, and he looked again on the
world with repulsion, dreading its mean contacts.